


lies, damned lies, and the stories we tell ourselves

by Teaotter



Category: Goodbye Sam Hello Samantha - Cliff Richard (Song)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, M/M, Miscommunication, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lou knows that his boyfriend keeps secrets from him. But it's all just the price of dating a spy: secrets and silence and patently obvious lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lies, damned lies, and the stories we tell ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karaokegal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/gifts).



> A million thanks to my beta readers, Pocketmouse and Heron61, without whom this story would be a nothing but a fluffy white bunny lost in a snowstorm. All remaining mistakes should be blamed on a vague yet menacing government agency.

By the time I get out of the shower, Sam is nearly dressed, the white-on-white pinstriped shirt crisp like armor and untouched by the steam I deliberately let into the room. There’s a dry cleaning bag slung over the closet door, partially unzipped to free one of his stylish but somehow impersonal suit jackets, and his thick black curls have been slicked back, practically immobile. He's already pulling himself together, scrubbing off the human being I know and stepping into the spook he's never quite let me meet.

I finish wrapping the towel around my waist and lean against the door frame to watch him pack. His movements are quick, his hands flicking carefully precise arcs. The dark brown duvet, already tucked smoothly back around the sheets, cradles a rapidly-shrinking collection of plain white undershirts and plain black socks. I know for a fact that he owns other colors, but those are the only ones he wears to work.

I wait a minute for him to look up, but he doesn't even pause to take in my fine, half-naked self, and it stings.

“I won't miss you,” I tell him. It's a lie, and we both know it.

“Why would you?” He asks, closing the suitcase with a snap. It's just as impersonal as the suits he wears, and I wonder if spooks ever get their luggage confused. Or if the contents are so interchangeable that it wouldn't matter. “I'll only be gone a week.”

I decide to postpone getting dressed in favor of crossing the room to wrap my arms around him. I'm just a hair taller than he is, but it's so much fun to remind him of that. I lean my chin over his shoulder, my clipped blonde hair pressed to his starched curls. I make sure to get his shirt damp from my skin. 

“Lou,” he says softly, and I can't tell if he wants me to back off or press forward.

I compromise, sliding my hands down to his. “I remember the last time you were 'only gone a week.' How long was it?”

“I've forgotten.” Sam tilts his head to the side, baring the line of his neck, and who am I to resist such a beautiful invitation?

“Mmm. Me, too.” I nuzzle against him, his smoothly shaven skin soft against the slight stubble I've been sporting this year. “What's he like?”

“Mm?”

I pull back to admire the faint reddening along his neck, and incidentally to let him come up with an answer to my question. “Your double. What's he like?”

“She, actually.” He steps away, frowning faintly down at the dampness on his shirt. 

I hide a smile by reaching for my clothes. “How does that happen?”

“How does anything happen? It's an alternate universe.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pinch the crease on his sleeve, testing its sharpness. Apparently it passes, because he just settles his cuffs and moves toward the door. “Coffee?”

“Always.” I wait for him to leave the room before I steal one of his abandoned undershirts from the dark oak dresser. He probably knows I've been taking them, but as long as he doesn't mention it, I'm not going to be the one to bring it up. 

There's a lot we don't talk about. Not directly, anyway.

He tells me these fantastic stories about his work. That he's captured alien octopi in the sewers of New York. Fought giant sand worms in the Mojave. Just these really outrageous stories, and no question I ask can make him break from them. If he has to lie to me about where he's going, then I guess it's better that it's an obvious lie – like trading places with his double from an alternate universe – than something I might mistake for the truth. 

I don't mind, as long as he comes back. But that's the part he doesn't want to hear.

I pull on my jeans and the green henley I'd brought with me and pad barefoot into the kitchen. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s all white walls and dark wood, with the kind of high-tech stainless steel appliances that can be programmed from his phone. Thin winter sunlight streams in through the window and gleams off of everything.

The scent of coffee wafts gently through the air as Sam pushes a cup my way. “So what's _she_ like?”

Sam looks dubiously at the date on the cream carton before emptying it down the sink. “We have the same bone structure. Her face is thinner. She keeps her hair longer.”

I try to imagine Sam as a woman. The only image my brain comes up with is a tall, lanky woman in a dark business suit, pencil skirt, and the kind of shoes she could kill with. I take a sip of my coffee before I ask, “Is she a spy too?”

“That's classified.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” I don't expect an answer so much as – yes, there it is, the tiny upquirk at the corner of his mouth that says he's laughing. I treasure those.

And yes, I will miss him when he's gone, damn it. I'll miss him as soon as I walk out of this apartment, more when the smell of his laundry detergent fades from the undershirt I took. But I can't tell him that, either.

That's the price of dating a spy, I tell myself when I saunter out his front door as if I don't give a shit either way. Secrets and silence and patently obvious lies.

***

That night I dream that I've been kidnapped by my supervisor and chained to a wall in some dungeon for missing too many report deadlines. Sam breaks in to rescue me, but then it turns out he's there to rescue the woman in the next cell. She looks just like him, and talks just like him, and the two of them end up leaving without me as I desperately try to get Sam to look at me.

It's a pathetically obvious dream about my insecurities, and I even know that I'm dreaming the whole time. I still end up staring at the clock for an hour before I can go back to sleep.

***

Two days later, my work phone rings while I’m catching up on the monthly reports. My office is cramped, with a tiny slit window looking over the parking structure next door, but at least it’s entirely mine. I can keep my squooshy spheres and a framed photo right there on my desk, even if the photo does barely show the side of Sam’s face and a lot of baseball cap. It’s hard to get a good picture of a spy.

The caller ID shows only 'blocked sender,' and I should definitely let it go to voice mail, but I pick it up anyway. Sam sometimes calls from blocked numbers, and it's not as if I've never dealt with telemarketers before.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shapiro,” a woman's voice responds when I say hello. “Are you available for dinner tonight?”

It isn't the kind of question I'm expecting, and it makes me laugh. “You know, that's an unusual opening for a sales pitch, I'll give you that. But I don't make dates with women I've never met, and I'm afraid I don't recognize your number.”

“You wouldn't.” The line is spoken in an utterly deadpan tone, but the hint of laughter underneath reminds me of Sam. He's never introduced me to anyone he works with, but I could imagine this woman as a spy.

Not that I know anything about her, and the blinking cursor on my screen reminds me that I shouldn’t be daydreaming. “Who are you, again?”

There is a pause on the other end. “I think you know.”

“I don't think so,” I say, starting to feel unsettled about the whole thing. “And if you just want to play guessing games, I'm going to hang up now.”

Another pause. “This is an unsecured line.”

“Are you saying my phone is tapped?” I shouldn't be surprised when that comes out more flirtatious than outraged. It's the kind of joke I make with Sam – 

“One can't be too careful these days.”

– all the time, and that's exactly the kind of thing he says in response.

I've never spoken with anyone he works with; he's never even mentioned the possibility. My mind starts filling in very scary reasons why they might call me now. “Has something happened?”

“Oh, no, Louis. Nothing like that,” she says quickly. “Hmm. May I call you Louis?”

“If that's not why you're calling –” My sense of unease shifts, and suddenly I'm angry. “No one calls me Louis. It's Lou.”

“Lou, then.” She says it like it's new information, and I guess Sam really doesn't mention me at all. “We can talk more at dinner –”

“– I'm busy. Sorry.” I know I don't sound it.

“Another night?” She waits, and the silence stretches out painfully as I stare out the window at the shadows of parked cars. “I see. Well. If your business concludes early, perhaps you can join me. I'll be at dining at Aleppo's.”

“I won't be there.”

“At eight.”

***

I can't stop thinking about it. Sam never answers my questions, and whereas this woman doesn't seem more likely to – surely I'd find out something. But would it be anything I want to know?

When I go home, my apartment feels smaller and more empty than usual, the deep greens and browns somehow colder. I crank up the heat and set an old Beach Boys record spinning on the stereo. The funked-up drums of “Slip on Through” let me relax, at least for a while. But the closer it gets to eight o’clock, the more I second-guess myself.

At seven thirty, I throw myself into a suit with the wild idea of hailing a cab to the restaurant before sanity catches up with me. I don't want to find out anything behind Sam's back. I want him to tell me. 

I take off the tie, throw the jacket over the back of a chair and drop down onto my couch to watch the minutes tick by. Seven forty. Maybe once I'm well and truly too late to go, I won't feel so jittery. I call for delivery from the local Thai place to give myself something else to be waiting for. Another reason to stay home.

I turn on the basketball game; I flick the tv off again a minute later. Seven forty-eight. I consider making a dash for the restaurant anyway. I won't get there on time, but – never mind. I change into sweats instead, figuring I can settle my nerves with a short run someplace in the opposite direction from Aleppo's and far away from maddeningly slow clocks. It's only seven fifty-nine.

It's exactly eight when the doorbell rings. I open it to the smell of Thai food and a very lovely dark-haired woman in a blue cocktail dress.

She looks like Sam.

She looks like Sam and is carrying a plastic bag of take-out from the place around the corner.

She even moves like Sam, pushing past me into the apartment like I wouldn't even think of stopping her. And I don't. I barely remember to close the door.

She walks directly into the cramped kitchenette and starts unloading the bag onto the last empty spot between the coffee maker and the microwave. “One pad kee mao with shrimp, one pad see ew with chicken, and a pad thai with everything.” In person, I can hear the faint mid-western accent she shares with Sam. “Were you really going to eat all of this yourself?”

“Not tonight.” I swallow around the lump of – something – in my throat. “Who are you?”

She looks over one bare shoulder at me. “Samantha Whitaker. But you know that.”

“I don't know that.” I take the plate she hands me, automatically. For a moment, I can't figure out what to do with it. She points to the formica table by the window, then passes over napkins and chopsticks.

“Well, you do now.” She smiles at me, tiny dimples flashing. Sam doesn't have dimples. 

Other than that, I can see it. She's a little shorter, thinner-boned. But she moves like Sam. The freckles on her shoulder make the same ocean wave, and her eyes have the same warm brown flecks in a sea of blue. She could be Sam's sister.

Or maybe, just maybe, Sam has been telling me the unvarnished truth for months and I didn't believe him.

I find a chair before I fall down. Nothing feels quite solid.

Except her gaze, which is steady on me when I look up. “You look... hmm. Surprised,” she says after a moment.

A sound comes out of me. I think it's a laugh. “I wasn't expecting you.”

“Here in your apartment, or here in this universe?”

I have to take a deep breath before I can answer. “Either one.”

“Ah.” She turns away, reaching easily for the shelf with the wine glasses. “When I realized you weren't joining me this evening, I decided to join you.”

She finds the wine rack in the far cabinet just as easily. And the drawer with the corkscrew. I'd object, but alcohol sounds like a good idea right now. “How did you know what I ordered?”

“Your phone is tapped.” She hands me a glass of white wine, an odd, wry smile on her face. “I thought you knew.”

“I wasn't sure.” Alcohol might be the best idea anyone has ever had.

“Be sure.” She sits across from me at the little table and folds her hands under her chin. I've never seen Sam sit like that. “We also track the GPS on your car.”

The whole scene is jarring. She's dressed for a party, and I'm in sweats, and we're both sitting in my crowded kitchen talking about surveillance and alternate universes like those are things that actually go together. Hell, maybe they do. “We, as in you, or we, as in the agency?”

She laughs softly, but doesn't answer. Pointedly.

“Cameras?”

“What about them?”

“How bugged is my apartment?”

“Not terribly.” She reaches for her chopsticks, and I realize neither of us has been eating. “His apartment, on the other hand –“

“... Shit.” I'm not hungry. I kind of feel like this whole conversation is happening without me, my mind just replaying her asking 'here in this universe?' as if that was a rational question.

“Don't worry,” she waves a hand airily. “No one watches those recordings unless something happens.”

The hand-wave catches my attention. Sam does that. When he's talking about his work. “Why don't I believe you?”

She shrugs, all fake innocence. “Because you believe that all human beings are as perverse and dirty-minded as you are?”

It's the same rhythm as talking to Sam. The same give-and-take. “Not all of them. But the ones in your profession, yes.”

The false innocence gives way to blandness for a moment. “Did I say it was my profession?”

“If it weren't, I doubt they'd have let you wander around alone.”

She gives me a slow and utterly wicked smile. Not the one I'm accustomed to seeing on Sam, either, which is more of a crinkling around his eyes. This is a broad thing, and very wet, and I don't realize I'm staring at her mouth until she blows a kiss at me.

I can feel myself flush. Because I've been flirting hard with this person I don't even know. It's like she's Sam, like Sam somehow got turned into a woman – and maybe that's something possible, if alien octopi and alternate universes are real. Maybe it could happen.

But that smile... that isn't Sam. He's never been so blatant in his entire life. He was born more tightly wound than that.

“Samantha.”

The smile settles into something softer. “My friends call me Sammie.”

“You have friends?”

She frowns, and again, the expression is all wrong – too wide, too obvious. “Yes, I have friends. And in my universe, you know them. You don't here?”

My head is going to explode. “You know – me. The other me.”

“The other you, yes. You keep your kitchen the same, by the way.”

“That's.” My mind goes totally blank for a moment. Kitchens. Universes. Right. “Convenient for you.”

“And you, in this case.”

She pointedly picks up her chopsticks, and we eat in silence for a few minutes. 

It's more awkward that I could ever have imagined, and eventually, I give in. “No, I don't know his friends.”

“I've been getting that impression.”

Her tone is definitely cooler now, but not in a way I can pin down. If she were Sam, he'd be angry, but I'm the only person in this room who ought to be angry right now. I let the silence stretch out again.

When she breaks it, her voice is so quiet I almost miss it. “Does he love you?”

At that, I shove my plate away and stand up. “I don't think that's any of your business.”

She doesn't stand, doesn't even look up. “I didn't think I could possibly be more of an idiot in this universe than I was at home. Why am I surprised?”

“You're also talking to yourself when I'm standing right here. So do me a favor and take it elsewhere.”

“I'm sorry. This situation is strange for me, too. The other you and I. Well.” She meets my eyes directly, and I can't look away from the intensity in her gaze. “Louise is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I can't imagine feeling differently in any universe where I knew you.”

I have to swallow around the lump in my throat. “It isn't like that.”

She gets slowly to her feet. “I can see that. I'm sorry, I didn't intend to – trespass. I misread the situation.”

And suddenly, I'm too tired even to be angry. “Just get out.”

“All right.” She pauses at the kitchen door for a moment, but I don't say anything and I don't look. I don't want to know if she's looking at me. I don't want to see the pity in her eyes.

I can't stop hearing the way she said it. “Louise is the best thing that ever happened to me,” she said, and she was so sure. I can't imagine Sam ever saying that about me, not like that. And I'm afraid that I won't be able to forget that when he's back, when I'm talking to him, or kissing him, or fucking him. And then it'll all be over, and I won't have him at all, and I don't know what the fuck to do about it.

I drink the rest of the bottle of wine by myself.

***

The next day, a dozen red carnations and an apology note are waiting for me when I get to the office. They're followed in short order by a fruit basket, an edible fruit arrangement, and a pizza whose toppings spell out 'I'm sorry Lou.' I put all the others in the break room to appease my curious co-workers, but the pizza stays with me. It's delicious.

The fourth delivery guy is a bike messenger wearing wraparound shades and no visible tattoos or piercings. He looks offended when I don't want to “sign” for this package on his thumbprint scanner. But he leaves me the envelope anyway.

It's a new phone. With all my contact already installed, and it logs into my email automatically. Damned spooks. I check the envelope for a note. Nothing. I put it through the shredder anyway, the faint grinding sound intensely satisfying.

When it’s done, I dial Sam's number. As I expected, Sammie answers it.

“I'm not sure this counts as an apology,” I tell her.

“It's encrypted,” she responds promptly. “At least you'll know that no one else is listening in on your conversations.”

“Repairing a gross invasion of my privacy is still not an apology.” It comes out more teasing than angry, damn it. I guess she's forgiven.

“If you say so.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Look, can we start over? I'm only in this universe for a few more hours, and I'd like to be able to tell Louise that we'd had a civil conversation.”

“A few hours?”

“Someone wrapped up his mission early.”

“Oh.” I'm disappointed, and I guess not only had I forgiven her, but I'd started looking forward to seeing her again. 

“Look. Lou.” I can hear a door close at her end. “I should have said this last night. His phone is full of texts from you. I think he's kept them all.”

“I –”

"– All of them. Even the ones that just say 'ok.' You and I both know what that means.”

I close my own office door. “I don't think it means anything –“

“There's a photo of you two on his desk. Right here. Let's see, there's some kind of furry camelid behind you, I have no idea what that creature is –“

“Camelid? Do you mean an alpaca?”

“– Maybe? but it does _not_ look tame. Actually, it looks like it wants to kill you.”

I can feel a smile stealing across my face. “It might have. We _were_ laughing at it.”

“Sam looks like he'd do anything to make you laugh like that.”

I can't find anything to say to that.

After a moment, she goes on, her voice quiet. “Louise left me last year. For fourteen excruciating days, she wouldn't even speak to me. I didn't get to hear her laugh, or watch the way her eyes lit up when she smiled. I've never felt more frightened in my entire life than I did those two weeks. But it helped me be – braver.”

I finally let out the breath I've been holding. “He doesn't feel that way.”

“I think he does.” She sighs. “But if he doesn't, then you definitely deserve better. Kick his ass to the curb and go be happy.”

The sudden change in direction startles a laugh out of me. “When exactly did you decide to be my big sister?”

“When I realized you weren't going to let me seduce you.” She laughs at my horrified silence. “What? You think Louise didn't want me to try you out?”

I can't tell what expression's on my face, but it feels sour. “I think I liked you better as my sister.”

“I got that impression,” she says sunnily. “Girlfriend. “

“I wish you were staying. A bit longer, at least.” For the first time, I wonder what Louise is like, and wish I'd been able to ask.

She hums a little. “Does that mean I can call you next time I'm in town?”

“Sure.” Oh what the hell. “Tell Louise I said hi.”

She laughs again. “Tell Sam I think he's an idiot.”

***

But I don't, because when he calls that night, I don't answer the phone. He is an idiot, or I am, and I'm not sure which. He doesn't leave a message. I go to bed early and stare sleepless at the ceiling, watching the bands of lights from passing cars crawl slowly by.

It runs through my mind over and over again. _The best thing that ever happened to me_. The way her voice broke on _braver_. The photo on Sam's desk.

I remember when that photo was taken. He dropped by early one Saturday morning last summer with a packed picnic basket, and the two of us drove out of the city. We were looking for a vineyard I'd read about, but we got turned around and ended up at this ridiculous alpaca farm. He bought me a hat (made with genuine alpaca yarn) that was too hot to wear, and a scarf for himself in the same colors. It was cute.

We were sitting in the sunshine, laughing, and he'd taken that picture. Just two ordinary people in a perfectly ordinary cell phone picture. I told him I wanted to spend every weekend like this. I meant I wanted to spend every weekend with him, but when I looked up at him, he was looking away, all his laughter gone. I'd figured my statement was already a little too close to commitment for him, and turned it into a joke.

It doesn't make any sense. Sammie has to be wrong. But I can't figure out why he kept that picture.

***

Sam doesn't try calling again, but when the doorbell rings the next night, I know it's him. Peering through the peephole, I can see a dozen red carnations and the edge of a black coat sleeve, the bright orange of a fruit basket and the gray-brown of a pizza box.

My phone beeps. Text from Sam: **If I have to drop one of these: flowers or fruit basket?**

**Why not the pizza?**

**It was the last thing she ordered, so I'm thinking it worked. Am I right?**

Belatedly, it occurs to me that she bought all those things on Sam's credit card. And I'd called his phone right after. Damn it, I still find the spookery charming. 

When I open the door, Sam just looks at me. We look at each other for a long moment, until I realize he really is in danger of dropping everything right there on my doorstep.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” His eyes crinkle in a tentative smile. “Are you going to let me in?”

“I'm still deciding.”

He shifts to push the pizza box toward me, and the plastic-wrapped bouquet slides precariously toward his elbow. “I tried to get them to write 'I'm sorry' in three languages, but apparently it's hard to form Cyrillic characters with pepperoni.”

I give in, because I can't help laughing at his stupid joke. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders when I step back to let him in.

“You're right; it was the pizza.” I decide not to mention the phone. He'll see it soon enough. “But do you know why?”

Sam places the flowers on the kitchen table, fluffing them apart perfectly. “Originality?”

“Nope.” I wait til he turns to look at me. “It's because apologizing with pizza is _cheesy_.”

And there it is, that tiny, tiny upquirk, nothing at all like Sammie's broad smiles, and it makes my heart melt. I can't help leaning in to kiss him there. His hands fall immediately to my hips and squeeze tightly.

“Does this mean I'm forgiven?” he asks, when I pull back. 

“No. not quite.” They have the same blue eyes, and I have to know. I take a deep breath, then take his face in both hands. “I love you.”

His face shutters, and my heart falters. “Lou –“

 _Braver_. “I mean it –"

He shakes his head. “I'm only sorry –“

I try to pull back from him, but he doesn't let go. “Sammie says you're an idiot.”

His eyes narrow. “I'm sorry _I can't give you what you want._ ”

The words don't make any sense. “Excuse me?”

“What you want,” he repeats. “A normal life. Weekends in the country. A boyfriend you can take home to meet your parents. “

“Who says I want that?”

“You do. You did.” He blinks at me, the anger in his face shifting. “Have you changed your mind?”

And suddenly I'm grinning. “Sammie's right. You _are_ an idiot.”

“I am not –“

“You are.” I lean into him, and even though he's still angry, he holds me like he won't let go. It makes it easier to say the rest of it. “I want weekends with you. _You_. However I have to get them, and whenever they can happen around your stupid spy schedule and trips to alternate universes. I want a lover I can come home to, when his stupid job allows him to be home – regardless of whether I can ever introduce him to my parents. I want your crazy life, and your stupid surveillance, and my goddamned tapped phone.”

I don't think I've ever seen him so flummoxed. It's cute. “Oh.”

“Yes. 'Oh.'”

“In my defense, you never said anything.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “That's a shitty defense for a spy.”

“You're right. I'm an idiot.” He leans his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. “I love you, too. In case you didn't know.”

By this point, I've been half-expecting him to say it, but it still makes my heart pound. “I didn't. Actually.”

His eyes flash open. “How could you not know? I couldn't have been more obvious.”

“In my defense, you never said anything.”

The words make his eyes crinkle and the corner of his mouth tip up and it still looks nothing at all like Sammie's grins. I wouldn't trade them for the world. Or any alternate versions that might exist.

Which reminds me. “I also need you to tell me that story about the sand worms again.”


End file.
